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When Louis said he'd wait for the call from the charming and slightly indiscreet fireman, he didn't think he'd have to do it for weeks on end like the weeks that have passed since Valentine's Day.
February has gone in the blink of an eye, making way for a March that doesn't look as if it will grant him a miracle any time soon. April doesn't look too promising either as it approaches with mind-boggling speed and Louis still hasn't heard from the fireman who flirted —by now he's not even sure if that's what really happened, or his brain interpreted it that way for heaven knows what reason— with him the night his microwave went up in flames due to his flatmate's carelessness.
Not that he wants to seem particularly desperate about it. Louis is usually a patient and resigned boy about the things that happen in his life. However, for the past few weeks he's been spending more than his usual amount of time staring at his phone screen, and it's driving him crazy.
The waiting is driving him mad to tell the truth and, far from trying to understand that maybe the curly one has a reason for not contacting him, what he does is to fill his head with all these absurd questions that demoralise him a little more, more and more.
He wonders if he lost interest the next day and that's why he never called him, or if something happened to him at work that prevented him from using his mobile again, like a bad burn or an accident that Louis quickly pushes out of his head because of all things, that might be the most horrible. He hopes he's okay, anyway, even if he doesn't call, even if he doesn't write; Louis genuinely hopes that hot firefighter is safe in his craft and that his life is not in any danger during the exploits of his job.
Wishing him well becomes a kind of conformist closure for him, for in one of those weeks when the odds have narrowed even further and knowing that he can do nothing to contact him on his behalf —he has no number, let alone a surname to reach him— Louis decides that he must simply let him go and return to his quiet, solitary life, along with his bland day-to-day existence.
He doesn't find it particularly difficult to get his everyday life back, especially since he never let it go in the first place. He still goes to work without any kind of expectation. He doesn't stare at his mobile phone in the belief that the law of attraction will do him a favour.
He goes back to his shared flat at the end of his day and when Millie comes to visit, he hangs out with her and Niall until they both say goodbye to go to the brown-haired one's room and fall in love with each other while Louis stays there in the living room, in front of the TV, wishing the universe would take pity on his lonely soul and help him change this marginalised existence he leads for some reason.
If only he wasn't so shy. If only he didn't have such a hard time talking to people and was a little more friendly, maybe things would be different, a little better perhaps. There's nothing he can do about it, though, nothing besides take comfort in the idea that, even if the fireman never contacted him, he at least took a momentary interest in him.
After all, he asked for his number and called him pretty twice. That's enough for Louis to feel a little better about himself and believe that he's not entirely a hopeless case.
He manages to survive the next few days with that almost vain reminder, and even manages to forget about it when May finally arrives.
It's an ordinary Tuesday when Louis pushes open the door of his shared flat after a considerably long working day. He has had to work overtime in order to finish some accounting reports that his superior has left him as an assignment and has left after seven thirty, much later than his usual check-out time.
"I'm here," he announces to the air once he enters, as he and Niall usually do to announce their presence to each other and save them the fright of believing that someone has broken in to steal.
Silence answers him after a few heavy seconds, letting him know that his companion is not there. He nods to himself in contentment with his absence, takes off his coat to leave it on the coat rack by the mantelpiece in the entrance hall and takes off his shoes before pacing the room with his socks and a weariness that has no name or power.
He snorts with muteness draped over his shoulders, fantasises about a warm shower, a simple dinner and sheets around his body to mark the conclusion of his day. He is almost content with the thought that, at least, exhaustion will keep him from thinking about how monotonous his life is becoming now that he has nothing to look forward to.
It's a bit pessimistic of him to think that way, he knows that, but he doesn't torture himself about it either, knowing that he doesn't have time to change any of it.
He gets to his room, undresses as best he can and is about to go into the bathroom when suddenly the ringing of his phone fills the corners of his eardrums. He assumes, instantly, that it's Niall, so he doesn't rush into his bag to find it with deserved speed, thinking that he can always call him back in case he doesn't answer in time.
He realises that his assumptions become incorrect as soon as he has the device between his fingers, as the number on the screen doesn't belong to Niall or anyone else he knows, so Louis is now furrowing his eyebrows as he slides his finger to pick up and answer.
"Hello?" he says as soon as he places the handset against his ear.
He hasn't recognised the digits, so he has no idea who it might be, or that is until someone speaks on the other end of the line.
"Hello, is this Louis' number?" questions that vaguely familiar male voice, slightly thick against his eardrums that are now buzzing just as faintly.
The brunet blinks momentarily before shaking his head in a futile nod.
"Uh, yes. He speaks," he reports with some hesitation in between. He moistens his lips before cocking his head to himself. "Who is it?"
"It's Harry, it's," he clears his throat briefly, as if suddenly aware of the thickness in his tone and the spectacular purr that the static on the line bestowed upon him, "I'm the fireman who asked for your number a while back... I don't know if you'll remember me."
The fireman. Harry. His name is Harry and Louis had almost completely forgotten it. In fact, he's sure he had, that he had let it go along with the flattery he felt when he first spoke to him.
Still, the memories of that night and the knot in his gut come crashing back to him, forcing him to take a seat on the edge of his bed and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.
He can't believe it. He’s calling. The fireman has called.
"Y-Yes, I do remember you," Louis finishes stammering half-stunned, rushing more than he should to speak when he thinks he's been quiet for too long. "I remember you, yes. Hello."
"Hi," the curly-haired man greets with a chuckle in between, one that makes the chestnut shrink in place and feel his cheekbones cool with regret. "How have you been?"
There are many ways Louis could answer that question. He could, even, be honest, but that doesn't sound like the most appropriate avenue for him and his conscience, the only one that knows the truth about how he's been since the day after Valentine's Day.
"Well, I've been fine, yes," he replies instead, swallowing saliva and arranging his fringes on his forehead despite not having tousled his hair at any point.
He clears his throat for a moment, unsure if he should add anything else, ask about the welfare of others or anything else. Anything at all.
"Glad to hear it," Harry says before Louis can make up his mind.
From his tone of voice, he can almost imagine him nodding with a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but the image is fuzzy as he's unable to remember him properly. So many moons have gone out since the fourteenth of February that the whole event is something of a blot on his memory, a complete blur.
"Listen, I..." he starts to speak on the other end of the line. Louis bites the corner of his thumb. "I'm sorry it took me so long to call. I meant to earlier, but I didn't have any weeks off and I didn't want to, well, I didn't want to make plans with you and then cancel and stuff, you know?"
"Yeah, of course," he hastens to say, wiping his finger on the quilt beside him and evading the thoughts that want to work their way into his head. "I understand," he breathes, and really understands, or at least he tries to.
He doesn't know much about the job of a firefighter, and what little he does know is based on the occasional film he has seen once, in a time far removed from his life, so he couldn't so easily mistrust his words no matter how much he wanted to.
Still, a part of him —the part that was waiting for his call day and night endlessly and ended up terribly disappointed when it didn't happen as quickly as he would have liked— can't help but feel just as disappointed about it, just as saddened to know that so many days of waiting simply boiled down to this: an apology that he must accept and understand because there is nothing else he can do.
It's not like he can refuse to take it and ask him not to contact him again, hang up on him and block his number in the most dramatic way in the world. Well, yes, he could do that, but in reality, he doesn't want to, or the weakness won't let him even think about the likelihood when it's already filling his mind with a bunch of excuses that will sooner or later make him very bad.
Yes, Harry made him wait three months for his call, but his conscience insists that he shouldn't be so hard on it, that it's best to be a little more flexible and for the moment wait to see what else he has to tell him now.
He's made contact after all, it would only be fair to hear his intentions, right?
"So... everything's in order now?" the chestnut curiously asks a second later, after pulling himself away from his musings and clearing his throat to focus. That, however, doesn't lessen the strange flutter of butterflies that have unfurled in his gut heaven knows when.
Harry takes a breath, and from the murmur in the background, Louis guesses he must be shifting in place.
"Yeah, yeah, actually, that's why I'm calling you," he declares, and Louis is likely to hold his breath for just a second as he waits for the continuation. "I... I'm free for the rest of the week, so I was wondering if, I don't know, if you'd like to come to dinner with me on Friday," he proposes.
And there it is.
There's that thunderous throbbing. Demolishing. Painful. Anxious. Identical to the one he felt on Valentine's Day when he asked for his number and told him it was nice and a shame he was alone. It's there, cracking in his chest now that he hears him make the invitation, now that he realises that maybe those last three months haven't been a total waste and that, even if he momentarily forgot, he was waiting for this moment discreetly, silently, like a memory that faded like cotton wool in his memory only to resurface now that it's happening.
Louis has to put a hand to his chest in the hope that his pulse will slow before he speaks again, and he swallows all the saliva that collects in his cavity hoping his tongue doesn't stumble at random.
"Th-this Friday?" he questions in an automatic stammer, and almost wants to smack his forehead as that's not what he meant.
He intended to accept immediately, without giving it too much thought, without giving himself a chance to let air his eagerness and succumb to that creeping longing to see him that has been with him since February.
"If you're not busy, of course," the fireman mentions, and there's something in his tone that makes it sound as if he's begging for the brunet to be free.
Louis thinks it's just his impression and nothing more.
"No, I don't have anything to do that day," he reveals in another mumble. His cheekbones heat up at his confession, as embarrassment works its way into his clenched loins and his fingers now play with the mattress topper. His face is going to melt, or his heart will come out of his mouth at any moment. "At what, what time would that be?" he hesitates in a new questioning.
The air catches again in the trades of his nose at the same time as Harry hums on the line.
"Eight o'clock sound good to you?" he then suggests, and the concreteness of the encounter causes the blue-eyed young man to get goosebumps.
"Yes," he nods to himself, swallowing saliva for the thousandth time without understanding where it is that he gets so much out of it and why at a time like this, "eight o'clock is more than fine."
He regrets his words almost immediately, thinking he has sounded more enthusiastic than he needs to. He can't help it, though, it's the first date he's had after a long time, and it is, perhaps, the first time someone has invited him rather than the other way around.
Louis has always been the one to make the first move for everything. Despite his inconsistent nervousness and what could be considered as innate shyness, he is always the one who is giving the first greeting, asking the first question, giving the first kiss, the first caress.
He has always had one foot in front, and now that he is on the other side of the table, he can't help but feel strangely excited and extremely embarrassed.
Flattered, too, pleased perhaps?
Definitely pathetic, that's for sure.
"Great, eight o'clock it is," Harry decides, pulling Louis out of that sudden stream of thoughts based on his astonishment and grief and the disastrous swirl of nameless emotions taking possession of the thinness of his body. "I'll text you the address of my flat, okay?"
"Okay, yes," he agrees after licking the corners of his mouth.
Harry's breath through the line sounds like a smile, but Louis is so busy holding his own breath that he can't notice it.
"Right, so I'll see you Friday at eight at my place," the fireman specifies, just like the conclusion of a story that's been told for many years despite only starting now.
"Okay, see ya." he muses, and only realises they're saying goodbye to each other when Harry mumbles a goodbye and the line beeps in warning that the call has been terminated.
Louis blinks in place several times: quick and stunned, only to burst and stand up to throw fists in the air, all charged with an immeasurable joy that no one could ever take away from him. He is still in his underwear and socks, and yet he celebrates what has just happened. He celebrates the fact that he has a date.
Good heavens, the thought of it feels so strange. Louis Tomlinson has a date with a fireman. A fireman to die for. Who looks spectacular in his uniform and those green eyes and that incredibly pink mouth that now makes an appearance under his eyelids and almost makes him want to cry.
He's landed a date with one of the most attractive men he's ever seen in his life, someone completely his own type, and he hasn't the faintest idea how he'll manage to survive until Friday with all this new enthusiasm bubbling up inside him with such fervour.
He will have to hang on. He tells himself that he will have to be patient and wait for time to consider him and pass in the blink of an eye. He hopes it will, with all his heart. In the meantime, he goes about celebrating some more, taking that shower that is almost forgotten and telling Niall what has happened as soon as he announces his arrival as usual.
Fortunately for him, the rest of the week is not the slowed-down torture he feared it would be. In fact, it goes by so fast that a part of him feels frighteningly insecure about the whole thing. On Wednesday, he even has a minor meltdown that Niall and Millie manage to defuse with the help of lemon tea and reasonable words that Louis has decided to keep on his chest for next time, and on Thursday he has another one when he thinks he's deleted Harry's text with the address of his flat.
He sent it to him the same day they agreed to meet, but Louis ended up getting so excited —again— that he completely forgot the fact that he had to reply to it. When he remembered, he realised that he had nothing to say, or at least, he didn't know what he could say. So, he simply sent a smiley face that left him all flushed and meaningless.
Friday arrives, inevitably, fortunately, and Louis marks his departure from work early in the morning to return to his flat and get going. He does his best not to lose his head as he gets ready, showers with more effort than usual, washes his hair even though he did it a day or two ago, sprays on more cologne than usual, and dresses until the reflection the mirror offers him becomes something he can be proud of, if only for two seconds or a few more.
Niall arrives sometime in the early evening, and Louis is almost singing praises to the heavens as he asks him for an honest opinion regarding his outfit. His flatmate approves and gives him, in the process, a lecture about safety and the importance of staying secure under all circumstances.
Louis listens to his words still with his heart hammering straight into his eardrums, and thanks him when Niall offers him a lift, declining on the grounds that taking a taxi will be easier for both of them.
He finishes getting ready. Harry sends him a text message asking if their meeting is still on, and the brunet holds his breath as he replies that he's on his way. It would be a lie for Louis to say that he's not going crazy on the way to the curly guy's flat, as he's more than sure that his soul will leave his body and he won't make it to his destination alive.
His hands are sweaty, his hair doesn't feel right even though his best friend has told him seven times how good he looked before he went out, the mock talks he has in his head are extremely ridiculous, and no topic of conversation seems entertaining enough to make him want to delve into it.
He feels like it's his first time meeting a man, which, in his opinion, sucks. He's supposed to have done this before, so he has no reason to want to vomit up whatever he ate in the afternoon during his short fifteen-minute break.
He tries to calm down, is even willing to count to ten to try to appease the turmoil in his spirit, but before he can utter the number one, the car stops on arrival at his destination. Louis swallows slowly, pays the fare, thanks for the ride, and hesitates before getting out of the vehicle.
He dismounts in a fit of conscience but stands in front of the building wondering what would happen if he turned around and went home. The answer his subconscious gives him is that he doesn't really want to do that.
He doesn't want to make an excuse for Harry or miss out on whatever it is he has planned for the two of them. He doesn't want to sit on the sofa in his flat and realise that he's been a coward for no reason, that he was waiting for a phone call that he finally got and that nothing happened after that because his restlessness wouldn't let him see beyond this uneasiness that doesn't even have a source far from absurd.
He doesn't even have a bad feeling about this encounter. Apart from the incessant fluttering of the hundred butterflies eating his insides alive and the thunderous rumbling of his heart against the edges of his chest, Louis has no negative feeling or even any hunch that would allow him to escape from there now that he can.
There is absolutely nothing, and that realisation is what prompts him to take a long breath, pull his mobile phone out of his pocket and alert the fireman who has arrived and is standing in front of his building.
The response falls on him in an instant, pleasant, slightly adorable thanks to the celebratory emoticon that accompanies his words. In the next second, Louis is walking up the stairs to be greeted by the curly-haired man at the same door.
The smile Harry gives him is stunning and soft, a running row of teeth accompanied by the sweetness of a pair of dimples that Louis had forgotten about or wasn't even sure he'd seen before due to time. He sees them now, though, deep, slightly excited, almost as bright as the glint that abounds in that pair of greenish sockets that look at him as if they've been waiting for him for an eternity.
Louis forgets why he was so nervous in the first place, and as soon as the fireman steps aside to let him in, his heart stops weighing a whole ton, becoming a handful of feathers and silk that allows him to take the first step and all the ones that come after that.
They greet each other again, awkwardly. Harry shows him around his flat with a smooth blush that causes the auburn to blush in kind and explains that dinner is ready on the table and they can come into the dining room at their leisure. They do so immediately, per Louis' preference, and though he's not as hungry as the evening warrants —he may have been stripped of the tension in his gut, but the knot is still tight in the pit of his stomach, unbroken and indestructible— the idea of sitting next to Harry at the table is almost as enchanting as the fork at his side.
Somehow, everything is indescribably simple from that moment on. Maybe it was from the instant their eyes connected, or maybe it was from the second the man with the olive-fringed pupils opened the wood to greet him before he arrived, or maybe it was from the minute his heart skipped a beat and something inside him clicked again, just like on Valentine's Day.
Either way, and regardless of when it happened, Louis allows fate to take the reins and lead him down the path of a stream in which grows glory and a hope that he had sworn to leave at home, and that has found its way back to him anyway, strident, latent, as fervent as the glances they keep throwing at each other as they hold that conversation that goes nowhere and yet goes everywhere at the same time.
They talk about their jobs. Their days. About their years of study and training. About Harry's fascinating cooking skills —he's made pasta, and, by God, Louis is licking his fingers every five minutes— their likes and dislikes, their families, the Epiphany of sexual discovery and the ailments that come with self-acceptance.
They talk so much, and about so many things, that by the end Louis ends up completely forgetting about the anguish and anxiety he felt the last few days, and instead builds these new memories based on the sound of his voice, on the curl that insists on sneaking across his forehead no matter how many times he pulls it back, and his mesmerising way of leaning into him as he speaks and seeking his gaze each time he waits for his response.
He creates memories with the way he wraps his lips around the mouthpiece of his flavoured Malt and that exciting way he throws his head back with each of his laughs, just as Louis is wont to do when laughter bursts from them like dew on every early spring morning.
It's simple, and comfortable what goes on between them, and Louis, if he thinks about it for a moment, will find it terribly disconcerting how easy it has been to float in each other's orbit. So they don't, he doesn't think a bit, and instead, he accompanies Harry to carry the dishes into the kitchen and follows him with flushed cheeks to the living room cabinet.
They settle in with the intention of continuing the conversation they left between the tablecloths, but now that Harry is so close, brushing his knee against his, resting his elbow on the back of the seat and his torso turned in his direction, Louis couldn't even imagine what in the world he should say that would be worth breaking such a silence.
"I'm really glad you agreed to come," the curly-haired man begins to say softly, smooth, slow, his tone dripping like honey over the agitation of a Louis whose senses are fluttering. "When I called you, I was so sure you were going to reject me," he finally confesses.
The brown swallows all the saliva that collects in his cavity and moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue as if that will solve the sudden dryness he now suffers from. It doesn't, and instead, all it does is make Harry look down in that direction.
"Why... why would I reject you?" he decides to ask in one of those many stammers that have accompanied him throughout the evening.
His body has turned towards the fireman's almost autonomously, with a will so much his own but not exactly alien to the accountant's that he now feels his cheeks grow warm under the olive in the curling sockets.
His eyelashes flutter as he inhales deeply only to let the air escape in a sigh.
"Well, because it took me a while to get in touch with you," he remembers regretfully, but Louis is barely throwing it out properly when he does this thing where he brings one of his hands up to his and brushes the back of it with the tip of his index finger. "It was chaotic weeks..."
"It's okay," the blue-eyed boy whispers, half-choked, his heart racing in his lungs and crashing against his ribcage with unbearable violence. His skin has gone all crawly, too, and he's pretty sure the blush has crept up to his ears. "You've, you've apologised. It doesn't matter anymore."
"It doesn't?" curios Harry just as gently, this time making his thumb caress more concrete as he brushes the back of it with a certain eagerness that has Louis holding his breath.
The brunet shakes his head anyway, in anticipation, waiting for something exciting to happen. Something based on all those glances Harry's throwing at his mouth and that sudden indecent air that's started to hover around them without either of them —or Louis alone— noticing.
"Louis?" the fireman calls then, taking his hand as his mouth purrs his name in a sublime way.
"Yes?" he manages to whisper in response, though he doesn't know how he does it.
Everything burns from the hand Harry encircles, whole veins bubbling in the fire of his perpetual embarrassment, of that growing desire that only seems to reach inordinate measures with every second he spends with them gazing at each other, leaping with his eyes from his eyes to his mouth, from his mouths to the brown moles unfurling across his dermis, and from the moles to the permanent glint of their insistent, suggestive, slightly pleading eyes.
"Can I kiss you?" he finally asks, and Louis doesn't know if the sigh that comes out of his nose is one of shock or relief or because of the heat he's no longer able to hide anyway.
He half-opens his lips and the answer slips out on its own in a snap of his fingers.
"Yes, please," he manages to mumble, and no sooner does he give him permission than Harry is already leaning in his direction, folding his torso forward to cover his flushed cheek with one of his broad hands before capturing the corners of his mouth.
Never in his life did he think he would enjoy a mouth on top of his own so much. Never in his existence had he thought he would be ruled by such a gigantic arousal, provoked by the touch of lips on his own. Alive. Latent. As warm as the burn of the summer sun, as bland as cotton among their softness and slightly sweet as the hint of a spring that has said goodbye to the previous season.
Harry has lips of silk and cream, filled with a softness that tingles at the corners of his mouth with every slow movement he makes over it. His skin is warm and his breath, light and cool, has the calmness of a dawn worthy of the last vestiges of winter.
Something inside Louis stirs with excitement, almost imperceptible, but present enough for the brunet to be motivated to wrap his wrist around the hand that holds his face so that he can tilt his head to the right.
In a burst of absurd bravery inspired by that inexplicable but permanent cramp that dwells at the beginning of his stomach, the boy dares to open his mouth, leaning closer to the fireman as he strokes the length of his arm up to his elbow. His fingers follow the path of his abundant veins, while his mouth takes on a life of its own and moves as it pleases, synchronised with the other's cavity, curious of the incessant taste that abounds among the nooks and crannies of the curly man's interior.
He finds his tongue, and his forearm, reaches his neck and finally the nape of his neck, and gently pulls him down to kiss him with an eagerness he doesn't know where it comes from.
He kisses him, and a lot, with pleasure, with courage, with all the intention that the clicks they now produce increase in volume, multiply and turn into a disastrous tango in which the rhythm of the music is the uncontrolled beating of their hearts.
He sinks his fingers into the hair near the back of his neck, and Harry moans softly, a sound so short but devastating to Louis' resistance, who almost immediately is surrendering to his passions to dare to suck on the fireman's mouth muscle. Harry moans again, probably from the surprise that the sudden action of the man he invited into his flat out of own will must have caused him.
However, his shock doesn't prove to be a hindrance to either of them, for instead of rejecting the fierceness with which the brown man is approaching his mouth, Harry surrenders to the same effervescence to let himself be guided along the path of an ecstasy that sooner or later will burn them both.
Louis can feel the heat of the flames from that moment on, as their kisses become more heated, more passionate, more obscene even as the shame slips away from their reasoning and they're both emitting these short little moans that border on the indelible line of grunts.
They could last an eternity savouring each other's cavity, they would be able to stay a full millennium between their kisses, fingers plunging into each other's hair, legs entwined for an unknown and uncertain moment, and torsos leaning towards each other. But the tension in their lungs won't let them, and the cramp in their commissures —and Louis' calf— and the lack of oxygen soon has them giving each other a peck that makes the accountant's organs drop to his pelvis.
He doesn't pull away from him even when this might be the right moment to clarify certain intentions shielded by the silence of his blushes, and instead, trails the tingle of his lips along the edge of the curly-haired man's chin, learning and savouring the splash of those almost imperceptible freckles that adorn the green-eyed man's skin.
He moves down the curve that divides his jaw and neck, wandering the area with tongue, flesh and the occasional nibble that has Harry gasping aloud, burying one of his hands in the brown locks of his hair and the other rummaging the corner where Louis' shirt folds hopelessly.
Louis reaches the trail that directs him to the breadth of his shoulder, but before he can think of what he should do to test it as he has done with someone else's neck, Harry is tugging his hair back to his mouth and kissing him with the same anxiety of one who knows he is trapped on a floor and at any moment is liable to wake up.
If Louis were told that this was a fantasy, he would believe it, without objection even. But he knows it's not some delusional invention of his brain, for the way the fireman speaks his body back to him to hold it closer to his own assures him that this is truly an experience he's having with the same sanity as an ordinary day.
He's about to lose it, though, especially when Harry happens to bite the edge of his mouth and suck on his lower lip at the same time as his hands, eager and mischievous, slip down his back to pull him closer and run up and down the length of his spine.
They both end up letting out a grunt as the closeness brings their pelvises together, and Louis's blood rushes to his head at the precise moment when a certain hardness brushes against his. Until now he hadn't been aware of the arousal that had spread through his body, but now that he senses the tightness in the front of his trousers and the new, brief friction against the other's fabric, he is certain that Harry has entered him beyond his eyes, that he has gone straight to his spirit and his desires and taken control of his effervescence with a few disastrous kisses along with that insistent plunge of burning buds that tattoo themselves around every corner he touches without remorse.
Reflexively, his hips arch forward, grinding against the curly one, who pushes down to rub against him shamelessly as their mouths continue to devour each other without consideration. They drink in his sighs and feed on the gasps and incessant breathlessness, tasting the warmth in his cavities and the rough but sweet texture of his greedy mouth muscles.
They lose track of their movements for an instant, one in which Louis plucks up the courage to tug at the waistband of the owner's trousers from the floor. His fingers curl around the button and his ears are filled with the curly man's new gasp as he undoes it in a second.
The brunet groans under his own breath, pushing the garment down mindlessly, his cheekbones and ears and head so hot now that Harry lifts his hips to give him the space so he can finish descending on his task. Likewise, Harry won't leave his lips even dead, insisting on sucking the tongue of a Louis who is no longer thinking properly and has dared to slip one of his hands between the underwear of the fireman who has spread his legs for him.
They both moan as Louis fills his hand with his flesh, and goosebumps rise on his skin at the exquisite impression he gets of another's intimacy. Harry is viral and broad, hot between his digits, slightly damp from his passion, and so, so heavy that the brunet ends up making a puddle in his mouth that the curly one ends up drinking one way or another.
He slides his hand down, Harry pushes his hair without consideration and a shiver runs down the spinal cord of poor Louis, who can't cope with the trembling of his own tongue, of his breathing, of that sudden eagerness to worship with his own lips the blessings of a male body that would have enamoured hundreds of sculptors and a million painters.
His flesh burns all over, but the real flames of all his passions reside on the tip of his tongue, on the edge of his ambitious fingers, those that touch up and down as his head tries to formulate the right request.
Harry whimpers in return at the attention he's receiving, at those slow, agonising caresses he's getting from the boy who has finally managed to pull away from his lips with an earth-shattering snap.
Louis exhales. The firefighter arches his hips upwards as if he wants to be closer to his touch even though it's physically impossible for them both, and a wet kiss lands on the side of his reddened cheekbone before the words manage to cluster at the tip of his mouth muscle.
"May I?" asks Louis in a stammer, and he is so angry, so hesitant with his request that he must mentally prepare himself to explain.
That's not necessary, though, because somehow Harry seems to understand perfectly well, and in the next second he's giving him a shaky nod that turns Louis every colour there is.
Under the absurd belief that at any moment the curly one may rightfully change his mind, Louis hastens to leave one last, resounding kiss on his mouth before moving down the breadth of his chest, brushing his abdomen with the edge of his own breath and finally reaching the exposed bone of his pelvis close to the impending fervour beneath his groin.
Breathe. Hard. Stifled. With a tingling on his lips that serves to represent the sudden, unheard-of eagerness that is tackling him without remorse. He can feel the fireman's gaze on him, the little space on the cabinet behind him, the heat rising around his face and the rabid scurrying of his raging heart. It is swift, unbridled, and he is enthusiastic about the task of pulling down the curly undergarment until his member is free and stands erect in front of the plumpness of his crystallised pupils.
Something akin to praise escapes from the other's mouth, but the chestnut's ears pick up no sound other than the one Harry produces from deep within his chest: a deep, thick moan elicited by the way the accountant wraps both hands around his intimacy. One at the base and the other at the delicious rockiness of his length.
He doesn't even take a second to think about his next moves, much less pause to look at the fireman to make sure this is the right thing to do. Instead, and completely blinded by the exhilaration of his longing, Louis spits on the wet tip of the other's member, only to squirt all the fluid down and around the head with the flush of his lips.
He fills his mouth in the next instant, with slow, leisurely slowness, crushing his own tongue to make way for the hardened flesh that now fills his insides with every inch he ardently embraces.
Louis slurps more than halfway down, and his eyes roll as Harry digs his fingers into his hair and pushes him down to urge him to finish what he's started. He does so gladly, as well as tasting it fervently, as if it were the only delicacy, he needs to survive the months of drought brought on by heartbreak.
Holding it between his cheeks, Louis realises that Harry is bittersweet, slightly more bitter than smooth, but definitely fascinating in his cavity. It's also much wider than it has appeared between his fingertips, and the texture in its splendid length has become tattooed in the memory of his mouth muscle, delighted, hungry, ready to devour every corner of that latent, tasty manhood.
He sucks it in again, lets his eyelids droop and surrenders to the inhibitions of his deepest longings to begin the tasting of the immorality behind his greed.
Recalling his past affairs and techniques learned from a literature he hasn't consumed for years, he takes it again and again, with care, with delight, with a ferocity that heats him beyond his ears and has Harry grunting and moaning over and over again. He does it a million times, until his chest tightens, and his lips are trapped under the tenacity of his teeth.
His hands never leave Louis' head. On the contrary, they cling to his light strands as the chestnut runs over and over it, swirling his tongue around it, playing with the tip as he cleans the fluids that unabashedly trickle out of him, swallowing and revelling in that taste that has him gut churning and the feeling that sooner or later it may become an addiction.
It wouldn't bother him if it did. In fact, he would succumb to his doom with open arms just to keep listening to the fireman protest all those times, his tone so thick, so harsh. Just as mesmerising as the way his member throbs with every suction he gives around it.
Saliva begins to drip down his chin eventually. His jaw tires and his tongue already scrapes in the centre from learning the protruding relief of other people's veins. Still, and with all that, he can't stop, as Harry starts to get a little louder than before, and his hips begin to rise without consideration, and from one moment to the next he seems to get so desperate with his effervescence that he ends up grabbing Louis by the sides of the head to lunge at him with a violence that leaves the brown man viscous, shocked and frighteningly aroused.
He fucks his mouth as if it belonged to him, pounding the back of his throat as if inside him he kept an inordinate, incomparable love, so sincere and delicate that he forces him to use his cavity with such frenzy for the sole purpose of dealing with all that wanting.
Louis lets himself be done, enchanted, burned from inside, with his heart going wild and a grip on his own intimacy. He imitates the speed with which the fireman thrusts his pelvis, with the same enthusiasm and ardour that consumes them both to ashes. They lose themselves in each other, at the same time as they give themselves over to the same passion, to that shared desire that came out of nowhere and decided to do with them as it pleased.
Louis chokes as a shudder rips through his loins, his knees go weak, and the burning that was once concentrated in the lowest part of his groin now spreads through all his limbs, as he spills himself between his fingers and breaks into all these pieces Harry holds together until he too breaks in heaps.
They cum with shared shudders and gasps, with abundance and a sudden embarrassment, worthy of a pair of lovers just getting to know each other in the early autumn fridge, under the ripening of trees whose branches bid farewell to orange and brown foliage: inevitable, imperative, as vehement as the look Harry and Louis give each other before the brunet swallows the residue of their passions and withdraws from the new warmth of an intimacy that has clouded his reasoning and soaked him to the bone.
"Did you...did you swallow it?" questions Harry suddenly, breathless, chest rising and falling, and vermilion streaked across the glory of his features.
Louis shakes his head in a shy nod, ready to apologise for no reason until the curly one grabs him by the forearm and pulls him to his chest to kiss him as if he knows there are no words that can come out of his vocal cords that will manage to express whatever it is his chest harbours.
He lets himself be kissed and kisses with the same gusto, more shocked than before, much more embarrassed than a second ago. His heart is huge in his ribcage and his soul is stuck on the edge of his throat.
They pull away before his lungs can think to whimper, and Louis breathes softly as Harry combs his fringes back in search of his gaze.
"Let's have lunch together tomorrow," he says in a hoarse whisper, affected by the lividness they've been indulging in for a few minutes. Louis furrows his brows but lets himself be kissed once more: short caresses that resemble spring drizzles, "I want to see you tomorrow, again, please."
Ideally, he would think his answer, or at least pretend to, but his head moves of its own accord in an affirmative reply, and the correspondence of his kisses and all those that come leave no room for anything resembling rejection or hesitation.
He couldn't hesitate if he tried, for the truth is that Louis wants to see him even after tomorrow.